The Wild Road Read online

  And so it took less time for Bethid to reach the grove and Ilona’s wagon than it might have otherwise. She saw ahead of her two large men walking more slowly than was their wont. Jorda and Mikal were in no more of a hurry than she to converge upon the wagon.

  “Wait,” she called, breaking into a jog. “Jorda . . . Mikal . . .”

  At the edge of the grove, both men paused and turned back. They were of like height and similar width, though swarthy, one-eyed Mikal carried more bulk in his belly. Ruddy-haired Jorda kept fit by the duties of his position as karavan-master. As she came up, Jorda opened a mouth mostly hidden by bushy beard, then closed it as an expression of realization crossed his features.

  Bethid answered the unspoken question. “Yes, Rhuan sat vigil. I wanted to give him privacy . . . I went back to the couriers’ tent.”

  Gray strands threaded the fading russet of the karavan-master’s hair, bound back in a single plait. Most of his face was hidden by the flamboyance of his beard, but in the flesh between beard and lower eyelids, Bethid saw weariness etched, and sorrow. She had been thinking only of Rhuan. But Jorda had known Ilona longer. Friendship, she knew, was as powerful in its own way as love.

  Mikal cleared his throat. “We’ve made preparations. We’ll see her buried with as much honor as possible.”

  He, too, had known Ilona better than she. Her path and the hand-reader’s had not crossed often, save occasionally in Mikal’s ale-tent. She had been attracted to Ilona but knew the hand-reader was a woman for men; Bethid simply had never cultivated a friendship. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I wish I’d taken the time to know her better.”

  “She was worthy,” Jorda declared. “Worthier than most. She’ll cross the river easily enough and be at rest in the afterlife.”

  Bethid cleared her throat. “Timmon and Alorn are rousing folk to attend the rites.”

  “Mother of Moons,” Jorda murmured raggedly. “I’m not prepared for this. I’m never prepared for this. There were always priests and diviners . . .” He dashed sudden tears from his cheeks. “I’m not worthy of this.”

  Mikal briefly placed a hand on the karavan-master’s shoulder. “You better than any.” Pressure urged Jorda into motion.

  As they reached the hand-reader’s wagon, Bethid felt an abrupt tightening in her belly. She realized how very much she dreaded seeing the door open, seeing Rhuan’s expression. It was a private thing, such grief, and yet custom now required that Ilona’s body be taken from him.

  The grove was lightening from shadow into daylight. As karavaners awoke within their wagons, one or two dogs barked. A nearby horse, picketed by the Sisters’ wagon, snorted heavily. Elsewhere, a baby cried.

  Bethid and Mikal stopped simultaneously near the wagon steps. Jorda took one more step, placed a booted foot on the bottom step, wiped a hand across his bearded face. Then he made a fist of that hand and knocked quietly upon the closed door.

  “Rhuan?” Jorda’s voice cracked. Bethid wished she could offer some kind of relief, but it was Jorda who knew Ilona and Rhuan best. She did not wish to intrude upon that, and Mikal’s expression confirmed his deference to the karavan-master. “Rhuan. It’s time.”

  For a long moment there was no response. Then the wagon creaked as someone inside moved. The latch rattled. The door was pushed open.

  Sunlight fell fully on Rhuan’s face, limning his features, the scratches on his face, and the brightness of his eyes. Bethid had forgotten that his hair was unbraided. As he broke into a grin, deep dimples appeared.

  It was wholly incongruous, Bethid thought, shocked that he should look so happy.

  Until he moved aside, and Ilona took his place.

  DARMUTH STOPPED SHORT in the doorway of the stone chamber. “You as well?”

  Ferize, in human form but with the scale pattern upon her, briefly bared her teeth in a response more animal than human. The pupils of pale blue eyes were slitted. He felt his body respond, the faint itching of his skin that accompanied the emergence of his own scale pattern. In the human world their transformation was under their control; here in Alisanos, their original forms exerted far more influence. Wild magic ran in their bones, was carried with them into the human world, wielded as they wished. But here the magic was far more potent. It wished to wield them.

  She wore human clothing, a gown of dark, rich indigo, with chains of braided gold wrapped around her waist. Black hair was loose and long. Her skin was pale, shining with the pearlescent hue of the scale pattern, delicate, almost fragile. The gown was cut low, so that as she breathed he saw the glistening of scale edges rising and falling from breasts to throat.

  Darmuth crossed his bare arms, planted a shoulder against the doorjamb, and leaned, affecting a nonchalance he didn’t truly feel. The itching of his skin subsided; he was fully human again, exerting more self-control than Ferize. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

  Something flashed briefly in her pale blue eyes. He supposed humans would find her beautiful in her human guise; to him, it was alien. He preferred her demon form.

  “So should you be,” Ferize declared.

  “Primaries will do what primaries will do,” he said lightly. “What profits us to worry?”

  “And if we are blamed?”

  Darmuth lifted his left shoulder in a half shrug. “The risk is no greater now than it was before.”

  Her slight human body was stiff, tense. “You don’t know that, Darmuth—”

  But Ferize broke off, looking past him. Darmuth felt the familiar presence, the pressure of a primary in full command of the magic. He straightened and moved away from the door, taking his place at Ferize’s side as he turned to look at the doorway.

  Ylarra stepped lightly into the chamber. Her smile was cold. “Perhaps you should be blamed,” she said. “Now, tell me why.”

  Ferize’s voice was low. “Brodhi returned before time.”

  “And could you not prevent that?”

  “I could not.”

  Darmuth felt his breath catch briefly as Ylarra looked at him. “And you?”

  “Alisanos took Rhuan,” he answered. “Would you have had me defy the deepwood?” He grinned briefly. “I was but a victim, Ylarra. As much as Rhuan was. It was Brodhi who willingly returned to Alisanos.”

  As he expected, Ferize erupted. “And so you shift the blame? Attempt to distract? Brodhi had his sire’s welfare at heart! The welfare of a primary.” She looked again at Ylarra. “That is why he came. To warn Karadath of Alario’s intentions.”

  “To get a child, another dioscuri on the human woman; yes, we know.” Ylarra’s slight gesture was dismissive. “It was not necessary for Brodhi to come here; Karadath is prepared for any action Alario may undertake, any threat he intends. They have been battling for two hundred human years. But we have taken into account that Brodhi did indeed act in his sire’s best interests, not through any desire of his own to give up his journey. And Rhuan indeed had no control over Alisanos; that, too, we have taken into account.”

  “What punishment for them?” Darmuth asked. “And what for us?”

  The primary smiled. “For them, and for you, in equal measure. It begins again, their journey. Thus, so does yours.”

  Darmuth exchanged a quick glance with Ferize; she seemed no more the wiser than he. “And?”

  “And,” Ylarra echoed. Amusement laced her tone. “Five additional human years in the human world. You may take that as punishment deferred or punishment levied. That is your choice. You are once again to attend your dioscuri, to monitor his behavior, his thinking processes, to hear him as necessary, and to report to us. In the meantime, you escape the unmaking. But if either Brodhi or Rhuan again returns too soon to Alisanos—by any means, and for any reason—punishment indeed shall be levied. They will be neutered, and you both shall be unmade. So, it is in your best interests to see
that neither returns before time.” Her eyes were cold. “I suggest you hasten. Brodhi and Rhuan are back among the humans.”

  Eyes fixed on the floor, Darmuth waited until Ylarra departed. Then he looked at Ferize. Her scale pattern faded before his eyes even as his own came up to the surface of his flesh. “Did you hear what Rhuan’s farm wife suggested in the Kiba?”

  “Who? Oh.” Ferize scowled at him. “I was not there.”

  “She suggested that they may not be gods.”

  Ferize’s eyes hazed briefly yellow. “They wield the wild magic. If not gods, what are they?”

  “We wield the wild magic.”

  Her scale pattern bloomed. “Not as they do!”

  “Perhaps not, but what if she is right? What if the wild magic has poisoned them?”

  “Does it matter?” Ferize walked by him, heading toward the door. There, she turned. “Darmuth, they can unmake us. If that does not define a being who is a god, I don’t know what might.”

  Smiling, he let her go without further questions or comments. Ferize had always been more excitable than he, and occasionally, it was enjoyable to provoke her.

  Then his smile faded. It was true that only the primaries could unmake those like him, like Ferize. Being killed was one thing, but being unmade—? A shudder coursed through his body. He wasted no more time on suppositions but departed the chamber. Time he returned to Rhuan, and to the human world.

  Five more years, as the humans gauged time. While it no doubt displeased Brodhi, and thus Ferize, it was not anything Rhuan would consider a punishment, but in fact a reprieve.

  Chapter 2

  ILONA. ALIVE.

  Jorda literally fell back a stride from the steps. Bethid felt her own mouth drop open inelegantly, and a shiver ran down her spine. She heard Mikal murmuring a fervent prayer to the Mother of Moons, fingering the string of charms at his throat.

  Ilona still wore the plain linen burial shift Bethid and Naiya had put on her the night before. Her dark hair was loose of the single braid, reverting to the exuberant array of long ringlets usually tamed by being wound against the back of the hand-reader’s skull and anchored with ornamented hair sticks. Her olive complexion was smooth and clear, hazel eyes warm and bright and most definitely alive, but encircling her throat was the unmistakable print of a large man’s hand.

  She had been dead. She had been dead.

  “I wasn’t dead,” Ilona said. “Or . . .” An odd expression passed over her features. “Or I was dead, but I’m not now. It’s—” She broke off, making a gesture of helplessness. “I’m sorry . . .” She turned her head. “Rhuan—? Can you explain? I’m not sure I understand everything yet!”

  Jorda’s voice sounded strangled. “Ilona.”

  “Yes, it’s me. Rhuan? Please, before they all drop dead of shock!” Then Ilona gestured apology, making a face. “Poor choice of words, wasn’t it? Well . . .” Barefoot, she descended the steps and stood on the ground, making room for Rhuan to exit the wagon. Her eyes were worried, Bethid saw; tension crept into Ilona’s expression and posture.

  Bethid’s words came out completely different from what she had intended. “This isn’t possible. You were dead.”

  “Ilona,” Jorda repeated. “By the Mother, girl, your neck was broken! D’ye think I don’t know death when I see it? When it’s in my arms?” He looked at Rhuan. “I would never tell you she was dead if she were not. Do you think I would? Do you think I could?”

  Rhuan descended and sat down upon the middle step, resting elbows on thighs. Hands dangled loosely. “No,” he said. “No, Jorda, you would not. You told me the truth last night.” His eyes swept them all. “She was truly dead when I came here last night . . . as Shoia are before they—before we—resurrect.”

  “Shoia!” Mikal blurted.

  Bethid began blankly, “But Ilona’s not Sh—” She paused. “Is she?” She looked at the hand-reader. “Are you?”

  Rhuan smiled wryly. “Have you another explanation?”

  “I didn’t know,” Ilona said, drifting close to Rhuan. “What do any of us know about the Shoia?”

  “Rhuan might know something,” Jorda said mildly, “being as how he is, after all, Shoia himself.”

  Rhuan and Ilona exchanged a brief, sidelong glance that was quickly banished. Bethid abruptly had a very clear memory of Ilona telling her that Brodhi wasn’t Shoia at all, but Alisanos-born; it was a short step from that to the realization that Rhuan was as well. And yet obviously, here and now, he supported the fiction that he was Shoia. But—Ilona? She was Shoia?

  The hand-reader shrugged. “Then Rhuan must be correct. He would know, of course, as you say.” She met Jorda’s gaze. “I remember nothing. Not after Alario threw me down. That moment, yes, I recall it clearly; and then I awoke in my cot with Rhuan muttering at me.” Her smile was faint and fleeting. Then delicate color suffused her face, and then Bethid knew precisely how Rhuan and Ilona had affirmed her resurrection.

  Mikal frowned. “Who is Alario?”

  “Oh, Mother,” Ilona groaned, pressing hands against her head. “There is so much to explain . . .”

  Jorda stared at Rhuan. “How did you make it out of Alisanos?” He paused. “You were there, were you not? I was given to understand the storm took you.” Ruddy eyebrows shot up. “Or were you off elsewhere shirking your duty, as is occasionally your habit?”

  Rhuan sighed. He glanced sidelong at Ilona. “There is indeed so much to explain.”

  Ilona looked at each of them; lastly at Jorda, where her gaze dwelled in a silent but poignant appeal. “It would be somewhat encouraging were you pleased that I’m not dead.”

  Jorda stared back in shock, then blinked. He took a step, then another, and pulled her into a bearish embrace. “Oh girl, I am pleased! Indescribably pleased! But you were dead!”

  When he eventually released her, Ilona remarked, “You’ve seen Rhuan resurrect before.”

  “I knew he was Shoia! But even then, the first time came as a shock. As this does.” Laughter rumbled. “Shoia or no Shoia, it’s the Mother’s doing.” He tipped his head back and stared up at the sky. “Sweet Mother, I thank you!”

  Bethid reached out and poked Mikal. “We should go. We need to tell everyone, to cancel the rites.” Instinct told her it was time to let Ilona, Rhuan, and their employer discuss matters best left to them. Her own curiosity could be satisfied later. “Let’s go, Mikal.”

  The ale-keep started. “Yes. Of course. We can—”

  But a high, shrill scream cut through the grove, cut off Mikal’s words. Another followed, and another.

  Each of them, as one, stilled abruptly, then turned and ran toward the sound.

  DAVYN AWOKE WITH a start. He lay wrapped in blankets atop a thin mattress spread over wooden floorboards, shielded from the elements by the wagon and canopy. With the broken axle replaced and the backup oilcloth stretched over the roof ribs, it was home again to him, albeit a temporary one. But it lacked others. It lacked his children and his wife.

  Trapped in Alisanos, all of them. All save himself.

  Once again he was swamped by fear, anxiety, and guilt: he was not with his family. Better that they be together, even in Alisanos, than separated. But the Mother had inexplicably kept him free of the deepwood, while Audrun and the children were swallowed.

  The hand-reader had seen it clearly: his youngest, Torvic and Megritte, together with the courier, Brodhi. She had seen nothing of Audrun or their two eldest, Gillan and Ellica, but she had told him that the child was born. Before time, well before time, victim of the power of Alisanos. So, in truth, five children were lost in the deepwood.

  His body ached. Over the past several days too much had occurred, too much had affected his life, his plans; plans he and Audrun had made.

  Huddled in blankets, he heard a rooster crowing in t
he day, then scattered barking. Nearby, a baby wailed with hunger, or the need for a fresh clout. The morning was perfectly normal in all ways, except that he was alone. Brodhi, the courier who had gone into the deepwood, was to bring him word. Brodhi was to restore at least the two youngest to their father, according to what the hand-reader saw.

  A call rang through the grove, summoning everyone to dawn rites. And then he remembered. The hand-reader was dead.

  Davyn groaned aloud. His right hand found the string of charms around his neck. Clenching them within a fist, he pictured the hand-reader in his mind, recalled her care and compassion. It was her vision of the courier, Brodhi, with two of the children, that convinced Davyn his only course was to ask Brodhi to go into Alisanos after his family. The courier had rebuffed him with distinct rudeness, but he had, in the end, entered the deepwood.

  “Let them be found,” Davyn murmured fervently. “Mother, let them be found, all of them, and let them be kept safe and unharmed. Bring them back to me.”

  Again he felt a twinge of guilt as he made the petition. The karavan guide had made it clear how much danger they courted if they took the shortcut so close to Alisanos. But fifteen—fifteen!—diviners made the decision for him. It was the only way to reach Atalanda in time for the baby’s birth.

  His fault, then. Wasn’t it? That Audrun and the children were taken by the deepwood?

  His chest ached with grief, his throat felt tight. Tears stung his eyes. Still he clutched the charms, concentrating on what he begged, not on what he had done. “Mother of Moons, let them be found. Let them come back to me.”

  A dull headache nagged as Davyn threw back tangled covers from his pallet. Tension returned to his neck and shoulders, knotting muscles. He felt used up, emptied. Depression was palpable. What in the Mother’s name was he to do now? Atalanda province no longer beckoned, the need to reach it lost with the loss of his family. He might as well remain in Sancorra, remain here in the settlement even if it was nearly surrounded by Alisanos. Worth the risk, for his family. And if the deepwood move again and take him, perhaps he could find his family there.